


Eye of the Beholder

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sure no one minds, John is out to prove him wrong, M/M, Sherlock doesn't think he's attractive, Slow Sex, a sweet treat to start the new year off right, detailed sex, this is 10k of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a crime scene, John confesses that he's in love with a man. Sherlock is upset until John starts describing this man in more detail. For just a few seconds, Sherlock thinks it could be him... until John mentions that this man is also beautiful. </p><p>Sherlock makes a cutting remark and walks away.</p><p>John is devestated... until he works out what's really happened and sets about proving to Sherlock that he is beautiful with long, drawn out, worshipful sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the BBC kink meme.

The day is sunny and warm and bright, not too hot, the perfect day for a crime scene. Or at least, it was until the crime in question turned out to be horrifically _boring_. Sherlock leans against the railing of the bridge and crosses his arms, staring in the direction of the flashing lights. He can see Lestrade arresting the lover, who's broken down into pathetic tears and isn’t resisting in the slightest. They’re too far away to hear the excuses but Lestrade looks a little bored so the excuses he’s stuttering can’t be too inventive. He shakes his head. "What a useless emotion," he says to no one in particular.

"Oh, I don't know," John says mildly. He's the one who stopped the lover, tackling the man to the ground before he could make a run for it, and he has mud smeared down the front of his jumper to prove it. He scratches idly at the drying stain and adds, "I'd do just about anything for the man I love, too."

Sherlock is prepared to retort with a cutting remark when his brain screeches to a stop. Slowly, he rewinds and processes John’s words a second time. He then turns to stare at John, who is gazing back with one of those quietly affectionate smiles he seems to reserve for Sherlock alone. "You're in love..." Sherlock says. "With a _man_?"

"Yes, that's what I said. Thought you hated repetition?" John grins cheekily and nudges Sherlock with his elbow. 

"I," Sherlock begins and then trails off because he genuinely has no idea how to finish that sentence.

Seemingly pleased by the fact that he's rendered Sherlock even somewhat speechless, John grins even more broadly. "I'm not gay," he says, "but I did experiment a little in uni. I always thought I'd eventually settle down with a girl but I'm telling you, this bloke... he's really something else."

There's a dreamy quality to John's voice that Sherlock is not comfortable with. His stomach is churning and he feels a little sick. He wants to make some sort of remark that will stop John from talking because he really doesn't want to hear about this, but it appears that his throat has closed up and the words don't want to come out. If John notices that he's upset, he ignores it because he starts describing this man in detail. At first Sherlock tries not to pay attention but gradually he can't help listening.

"He's very intelligent," John is saying, staring off into the distance. "The smartest bloke I've ever met, honestly. Sometimes I have to wonder what it was like when he was growing up. Being so far above everyone else must be hard. He deals with it now by shutting down and pretending that nothing bothers him but I can see inside him and I know what it means. I know what he's like." He finally turns to Sherlock and smiles shyly. "And I think that he knows me better than anyone else, too. He can look at me and know exactly what I'm thinking without my having to say it. When we first met I found it a bit weird but now I find it comforting."

There's a dull roaring in Sherlock's ears and his heart is suddenly pounding so hard he feels breathless for an entirely different reason. He doesn't dare to hope that John could be talking about him but the facts are, so far, supporting the theory: no one knows John Watson like he does. Could it be? Is John actually in love with him? He swallows hard and stares intently at John, hoping for more data that will let him know whether his theory is correct. John doesn't fidget or squirm under the intensity of the gaze, he never does, he just accepts it.

He continues with: "This man can be funny too, though no one else appreciates his sense of humour like I do. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not." He smirks a little. "He's a clever sod and he knows it, though. And to top it all off he's breathtakingly beautiful, too. Sometimes I can't believe that he doesn't use it to his advantage more. He's the most - Sherlock? Hey, where are you going?"

"I really don't have time to stand here and listen to your ridiculous fantasies," Sherlock snaps, his shoulders stiff. It's impossible to miss the look of hurt on John's face but he spins on his heel and stalks away, hoping that no one else saw that happen. For one brief, shining moment he had allowed himself to think that John might have been talking about him. 

It's a cruel thing, to have your hopes dashed out from underneath you, and it stings. He ignores Lestrade calling his name and keeps walking back up the path until he makes it back to the main road. John doesn't chase after him and Sherlock isn't surprised. If John was trying to let him down gently, well, Sherlock's not sure he appreciates the effort, not when it hurts this much. It takes effort to not try to imagine the beautiful man that John was describing, who John is apparently so close to but who Sherlock doesn't even know. Who is it? One of his old army buddies? A new colleague at the locum? The possibilities are endless.

A cab finally pulls up and Sherlock gets in. He feels nauseous as it pulls into traffic. Never in his life has Sherlock wanted something impossible as much as he does right now. He wishes, more than anything, that he could be beautiful so that he could be the man John was talking about.


	2. Chapter 2

John doesn’t come back to the flat that night. Sherlock’s not overly surprised by this, though he tries in vain to convince himself that he’s not disappointed by it. He curls up on the couch with his violin cradled loosely in his arms and tries not to imagine that John is out fucking the man he was describing, but his mind insists on torturing him with images of John, wonderful strong John, tangled up in a passionate embrace with someone else and to be honest it makes him nearly vomit more than once. The fact that there is nothing in his stomach doesn’t seem to help and finally he heaves himself off of the couch and totters into the bathroom to throw up bile and the tea John had made him consume that morning.

After he’s done, he washes his hands and looks into the mirror. Staring back at him is irrefutable evidence that John was talking about someone else. Conventional human notions of beauty are rather beyond Sherlock for the most part, but he knows that he doesn’t match up to them. He’s a little too tall, too thin by far, with larger hands and feet that don’t fit his frame. His cheekbones, as even John has pointed out before, are too prominent, and his eyes are a strange mixture of colour that is best described as odd. His skin is too pale and his hair too curly and he’s been made more than aware, over the years, that he fits no one’s standard of beauty, with the possible of exception of Molly who has always been a little on the weird side anyway.

Something clatters, out in the flat, and he looks around sharply. Footsteps on the lighter side, with the faintest hint of a scuffle, pausing near the coat rack before continuing on. It’s John and his limp is back. Annoyed, Sherlock strides out of the loo and into the kitchen. John is standing at the counter, pouring water into the kettle. His movements are overly stiff, like he’s working hard to keep himself under control. His hand is trembling faintly and he stands like his leg is actually paining him, shifting his weight onto the opposite side. Even though he must have heard Sherlock come in, he doesn’t turn around or offer any kind of greeting.

“Have a good night?” Sherlock says. The sneer in his voice comes out much more coldly than he’d intended, but it’s too late to take it bac and John swings around to face him.

“Look, it’s bad enough that you did what you did,” John snaps. “But to stand there and – ” He cuts himself off sharply and shakes his head, just once. He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly, looking very old and very tired. “Sherlock, I’m not in the mood to see you today. I only came back to the flat to get a change of clothing. I’m going to be staying with Harry for a while until I get this under control. I don’t want to ruin what we have and right now, if I stay here any longer, I feel like I’m going to.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand and he doesn’t like that. Why would John be going to stay with his sister? Unless he hasn’t confessed his feelings yet. Or possibly the name of his new lover is Harry. Or maybe he’s been rejected? There’s not enough data for him to be able to draw a viable conclusion. He thinks about just leaving it but instead he hears his traitorous transport speaking without his permission, saying, “Did your new lover reject you then?”

John stares at him like he’s crazy. “You were _there_ , you pillock. You know what you said!”

“What does it matter what _I_ said?” Sherlock counters. 

“Because you – okay. Okay, hang on.” John turns fully away from the stove and looks at him carefully. “I think we’re having two different conversations, Sherlock. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and the man you’re in love with!” says Sherlock, exasperated. Normally John can keep up with him without too much trouble. Sometimes he needs to be guided a little, but he’s never been this obtuse. “You didn’t come back to the flat last night so I deduced that you would’ve gone to see him, considering how you sounded yesterday when you spoke about him. But now you’ve come in and said you’re going to stay with Harry so I can only assume you’re either going to your sister’s because he rejected you or the name of your new lover is Harry, which seems unlikely.” He narrows his eyes and stands stiffly.

“Sherlock – ” There’s an expression of dawning understanding on John’s face. “That’s not – ”

Only Sherlock doesn’t want to hear anymore, not now. He doesn’t even know why he bothered to begin this conversation, why he didn’t just let John leave. He turns sharply and leaves the room, ignoring John’s sharp call of his name. He walks into his bedroom and shuts the door behind him, but before he can turn the lock John is there and pushing it open with his body, preventing Sherlock from slamming it shut again. So Sherlock stalks over to his bed and flops down, deciding that he will ignore John until John gets frustrated enough to leave. He pointedly rolls over and draws his knees up towards his chest.

There’s a soft sigh from somewhere behind him. “Sherlock. You... you do know that I was talking about _you_ yesterday.”

And all of his plans to ignore John go out the window. “Ridiculous.”

“Why?” 

“Because, John, I would think that even you would have the basic understanding necessary to know that the person you were describing yesterday is most assuredly not me.”

“Really.” John sounds a tiny bit amused now. “What part are you talking about that doesn’t fit you, then? Intelligent, clever, funny, knows me better than anyone, beautiful, a sarcastic sod when you – ”

“That!” Sherlock says and in spite of how he knows he should just _let it go_ , he can’t. 

“You don’t think you’re a sarcastic sod?”

John sounds baffled and Sherlock huffs, having passed his tolerance for this kind of stupidity. He rolls over and sits up. “Beautiful,” he says coldly. 

“You don’t think you’re beautiful,” John says slowly, like this is very difficult for him to process.

“I _know_ I’m not attractive according to conventional standards, John. It has been pointed out to me several times during the course of my life,” Sherlock tells him. He really doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. His heart is beating very quickly and it’s making him feeling dizzy and a little bit like he wants to throw up again. He turns away again, curling up into the smallest ball possible, wrapping shaking hands around his knees. “I’m not sure what game you are trying to play and frankly I don’t care. Just go away, John. Please.”


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson can count on one hand the number of times he has heard Sherlock Holmes say please and actually mean it, and that one word, spoken so plaintively, is what finally clues him in to the fact that Sherlock is not kidding or conducting an experiment of some kind. But instead of leaving, he closes the door and then stands there for a moment, looking down at the lonely man on the bed and wondering what his next step should be. He’d come back to the flat with the expectation of not seeing Sherlock at all, mostly because Sherlock had left so quickly the other day that John had assumed he wouldn’t want to see him either. In any case he’d been expecting anger, more rejection, not _this_.

“Sherlock,” he starts and then falls silent. At last he lets out a soft sigh and approaches the bed, perching somewhat gingerly on the end of it. This is honestly the last thing he expected and yet at the same time it makes so much sense he can’t believe he didn’t realize it before. He can still hear Sebastian Wilkes’s horrible voice prattling on about how much Sherlock was hated at uni. A man this brilliantly fantastic, it makes a painful kind of sense that the rest of the world would want to tear him down however they could. And yet… how can Sherlock have believed them?

Sherlock doesn’t say anything in response. He’s curled in on himself so tightly that John can barely see his face. He knows from long experience that it will take ages to coax Sherlock out of a sulk like this unless he cheats. A very small smile crosses John’s face and he says, “So you are a virgin, then?”

“ _No_!” Sherlock sounds as scandalized as a fainting southern belle. He uncoils and sits up, glaring heatedly at John. “I did enough research to understand for the sake of the cases,” he says in a clipped voice. “That’s all that was necessary. Now if you don’t mind, I believe the polite thing to do when you are asked to leave is to _leave_.”

Because Sherlock is the last person on Earth who should be talking about what constitutes politeness, John ignores him. “Sherlock, whether you want to believe me or not, I was talking about you at the crime scene.” It’s hard, saying this out loud after what still feels very much like a rejection, but John wasn’t a soldier for nothing. “The rest of the world might not think you’re beautiful but I do, very much so.”

“John - ”

“And I happen to think it’s a bloody crime that you don’t agree,” John adds, ignoring whatever protest Sherlock is trying to make. “I mean, for god’s sake, look at you. Sometimes it’s all I can do to focus on the crime scene when you’re being brilliant.”

“Yes, you find my mind amazing,” Sherlock says wearily. At any other time he might have preened under the praise, but at the moment he just looks… tired. Defeated. He looks the way John felt last night and for the first time it occurs to John that there’s a small possibility, however remote it may be, that his feelings are returned. The idea gives him courage and he reaches out, gently taking one of Sherlock’s hands.

“Your mind is a big part of it, I admit,” he says quietly. “But Sherlock, believe me when I say that I’m so fucking attracted to you that it’s taken every bit of discipline the army taught me to keep from jumping you before now. Look, look at this.” He places the hand between his thighs so that Sherlock can feel his cock. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, his body is still affected being so close to Sherlock on a bed. He’s half hard and he can tell Sherlock feels it by the way his eyes widen. “That’s for you, Sherlock. There’s no one else who can affect me like you do. It’s always been you.”

“John,” Sherlock says and now he sounds kind of breathless. John doesn’t give him the chance to finish. He shifts his weight onto one knee and leans forward, smoothly sliding his fingers into those ink-dark curls and pulling Sherlock into a deep kiss. Sherlock stiffens for a split second before relaxing so completely that he sags backwards, and John goes along for the ride. And since he’s already there it just seems like an easy step to throw his other leg over Sherlock’s belly so that he’s effectively straddling the man.

“God,” he says when the kiss breaks and there’s definitely a trace of reverence in his voice. “God, Sherlock, you’re just so… I can’t believe you don’t see it.” He’s angry still, but not at Sherlock, not anymore. Now he wishes that he could track down every single man or woman who has ever made Sherlock feel self-conscious about his appearance and have a few words with them.

“Are you…” Amazing though it may be, Sherlock is blushing, the soft pink colour rising in his cheeks. John watches in outright fascination as it slides down his neck. “John, you don’t have to - ”

“Don’t tell me I don’t have to because I very much do,” John says firmly. “Fuck, I’ve dreamed about running my hands through your hair.” He does just that, greedily sliding his fingertips through the mass of curls, savouring the way the silky tendrils caress his skin. Sherlock makes a soft sound in his throat and turns his head just a little, eyes sliding half-shut. The look of pleasure on his face from such a simple movement is unmistakable. John swallows hard and rubs the pads of his fingers against Sherlock’s skull, moving in gentle circles. He can feel the tension draining from the body underneath him.

Slowly, John allows his fingers to trail down, making broad sweeps that now include the top of Sherlock’s neck. When he realizes that Sherlock is watching him, he says, “I love your throat. Every time you put your coat on your collar frames it perfectly.” He’s never been a poetic man but he thinks he could if it involves that slender column of creamy flesh framed by dark, expensive material. He reluctantly takes his hands out of Sherlock’s hair, relishing the unintelligible protest, and lightly rubs his thumbs across Sherlock’s collarbones. “I have to keep myself from giving in to the urge to pin you down and suck a bruise onto the side of your neck, high enough so that everyone could see that you belong to me.”

Sherlock swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes are wide and glazed, but there’s still wariness in them, a hint of anxiety, like he thinks John is going to change his mind and walk away. John breathes out slowly and decides that he’s going to explain to him in as much detail as it takes that, now that he’s got Sherlock Holmes right where he wants him, there is no bloody way he’s ever going to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

“John, I…” Sherlock trails off without finishing his sentence, and this time it’s not because John has interrupted him. He truly doesn’t know what to say. Part of him still thinks that John is taking the piss, that there’s no way he can actually be serious about this, but there’s another part of him that is desperately hoping John _is_ being honest. And John looks like he is, his eyes are wide and a little dilated from arousal and he’s touching Sherlock like he’s something precious. Sherlock’s never been touched like this before and he’s not sure what to do about it.

“Shh,” John murmurs, continuing to rub his thumbs along the curve of Sherlock’s throat. It feels nice, tender, like he’s fragile and John is taking the upmost care to not break him. Slowly John leans down and places a light kiss at the base of his throat. His lips move to the left, lightly grazing his collarbone before moving up to his shoulder and then in, peppering the side of his neck with sweet kisses. And then Sherlock feels just the hint of teeth, a little nip, and he jumps. John chuckles softly and smoothes over the sting with another kiss. 

The first touch of his tongue is shy, unbearably gentle, a single warm sweep up the long lines of his neck. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he exhales shakily, unconsciously tilting his head to allow for better access. John hums in contentment and does it again, dragging his tongue down into the hollow of the pale throat before returning his lips to the place where he nibbled the first time. He begins to suck, laving his tongue over that one little spot, using his teeth to scrape and then soothing the pressure until the thin line of pain and pleasure begins to blur. Sherlock shivers and, unable to remain still under this onslaught, reaches up, touching John for the first time.

John is wearing a jumper but it does little to hide the muscled planes of his chest. He goes to the gym on a regular basis now, whenever he’s not following Sherlock around on cases, and it shows. Sherlock runs his hands down the length of John’s back, marvelling at the fact that he’s allowed to touch, that John is here with him instead of with someone else. His fingers creep beneath the hem of the jumper and meet with warm skin that no doubt still shows traces of being kissed by the sun even though it’s been a while since John was in Afghanistan. John murmurs his approval of the touch into Sherlock’s throat and finally leaves off, though he doesn’t go far, just up a bit to suckle at Sherlock’s earlobe.

“John,” Sherlock whispers. That feels _good_. He’s more than half erect now, his cock straining against his pants, and he wants relief. But at the same time he’s enjoying this too much to stop and the thought of taking his hands away, of the possibility of John leaving, seems abhorrent. 

“Mmm,” John purrs and pulls away. His cheeks are flushed, blue eyes shining with mischief. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been waiting for this and I’m going to take my time with you, Sherlock Holmes.” He brushes a stray curl off of Sherlock’s forehead and then slides a hand up into his hair again. “Fuck I love your hair. It’s the one part of you that always looks a little bit untameable.”

Sherlock makes a face. He doesn’t like his hair and he finds it difficult to believe that John does. “It’s too dark,” he says. “It was paler when I was younger.”

“Really?” John looks fascinated by this bit of information. “What colour?”

“Red,” he admits after a pause, wondering if this is information he should be sharing.

“Oh god. Oh my _god_ ,” John says and his pupils dilate a little bit more. “Jesus you’re a bloody menace.” He swoops down and kisses Sherlock again, pressing his mouth open and eagerly delving inside. Sherlock moans and welcomes the intrusion. John is settled on top of him and the weight is oddly pleasant, covering him all over except for part of his legs. It makes it easy for him to believe that John is really here. He kisses back eagerly, pressing his own way into John’s mouth, wanting to learn everything there is to know about John Watson. Their bodies are perfectly aligned for Sherlock to thrust up and both of them moan when their cocks rub in a tantalizing hint of what’s to come. A whine of protest follows when John pulls away abruptly.

John just shakes his head, flushed and panting, and turns his head so that his lips are beside Sherlock’s ear. “You’re going to make me come if you keep that up,” he says huskily with another little lick.

“I thought that was rather the point,” says Sherlock and he’s not pouting, he’s really not.

“It will be eventually, but just… just let me, yeah?” He shifts his weight a little and pushes himself up on his hands. “You’re a beautiful man, Sherlock. I know you don’t believe me but it’s true. Your hair makes your eyes stand out.” He trails one finger beneath Sherlock’s left eye, a tentative touch. Sherlock blinks reflexively up at him. “And your eyes are so amazing, the way they can see everything. Nothing makes me harder than when you’re staring at me like you do.”

How did Sherlock miss that? He blinks again and puts it to the test, automatically deducing everything he can about John. Dilated eyes, heavy breathing, cock digging into Sherlock’s belly - definitely aroused. Tensed muscles, though, indicating a level of control most people don’t possess or bother with. Eyes warm, voice like smooth honey, every touch as gentle as sin: this is John Watson at his finest, his most comfortable, in a place where he knows what to do and how he’s going to do it. John lets out a groan that stops him before he can go any further and this time Sherlock does pout.

“Jesus Christ,” John gasps, wide-eyed and flushed. “How did you… did you just… _Sherlock_ ,” and he leans down and kisses Sherlock again, and even though it’s hot and heavy and passionate there’s no loss of tenderness, it’s just delicious in a different way.


	5. Chapter 5

After several long, lazy minutes of kissing, John has to force himself to pull away. His cock is now entirely hard and pressed against Sherlock’s hip and he really, really wants nothing more than to strip Sherlock naked and fuck the man raw. It takes a lot of effort to restrain the urge; he presses his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder and takes a couple of deep breaths, concentrating on the way Sherlock is shivering underneath him until he’s not quite so close to the edge. Only then does he lift his head and say, in a somewhat hoarse voice, “I want to see you. All of you.”

Sherlock stiffens slightly. “Why?”

“Because I do,” John says patiently. He sits up, shifting his weight onto Sherlock’s hips. He can feel Sherlock’s cock against his bum but he tries to ignore it for the time being. “Will you let me?”

The wary hesitance is back and this time when Sherlock looks up at him and starts deducing him it’s not because he’s trying to turn John on. John, for the first time since the day he walked into a laboratory and met Sherlock Holmes, freely lets everything in his mind and heart show on his face, not holding anything back. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly at whatever he’s seeing and, perhaps unconsciously, his hips buck a little, rubbing his cock more firmly against John's buttocks. A soft groan escapes John, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment, and then he takes a ragged breath and lightly skims his hands down Sherlock's chest, which is covered by the thin but expensive material of his pyjamas.

"Will you let me?" he repeats, his voice as gentle as he knows how to make it.

In response Sherlock lifts his upper body and slides his dressing gown off first. John helps him, pushing the sleeves down his long arms and spreading the gown out around them until it's like a little nest. He can tell that Sherlock is apprehensive as they both reach down and grab the bottom of the shirt. This isn't the first time he's seen Sherlock naked or even partially naked - the man walks around in a sheet sometimes and John has patched him up more times than he can count - but this _is_ the first time it’s had a sexual undertone. They pull the shirt up slowly, revealing taut, pale flesh over muscles and ribs that show a little too well. Dusky pink nipples, already erect, draw John's eye and his mouth waters. He swallows, tearing his eyes away with difficulty. 

"You're amazing," he murmurs and then adds teasingly, "Could stand to eat a bit more, but..." 

The comment, a reminder of the daily life that they already share together, actually serves to calm Sherlock down. The tension in his arms and shoulders relaxes just a little and he lays back against the pillows, looking like a feast created just for John Watson. "Digestion slows the mind down, John, you know that. It gives me less energy for other things."

"I hope you'll have plenty of energy for this," John says and, experimentally, he flicks one of Sherlock's nipples gently with the nail of his finger. The response is fascinating. Sherlock's eyes dilate and his cheeks flush, mouth dropping open, and his back arches, seeking more contact which John gladly grants. He pinches both nipples between his thumbs and index fingers and then rolls them, learning the shape and the soft, high-pitched squeak that emerges from Sherlock's throat when John gives a little tug. "You're sensitive."

Sherlock swallows hard. "Is that... bad?"

"No. Christ no." Actually John can't imagine anything he wants more and to prove it he leans down and takes one of them into his mouth, firmly laving his tongue over the nub. Sherlock moans out loud, his hands coming up to lace into John's hair and push him more firmly against Sherlock's chest. So John does it again, and then he draws teasing circles around and around, never quite touching, and he loves the way that Sherlock squirms under him, hands tightening reflexively in his hair. 

"John!" Sherlock says at last, petulant and bordering on confused desperation.

"It's never a bad thing to hear you respond like that," John says warmly, pulling back to look into Sherlock's eyes. He suspects that while Sherlock isn't a virgin, he's very much inexperienced when it comes to this, to the slow, detailed exploration that John likes to do with his partners. There's a rather large difference between a quick fuck in the pub bathroom and actually sharing something. "I love hearing you cry out and moan when I do things to you. I didn't think I had an addictive personality, but you're proving me wrong."

The faint flush in Sherlock's cheeks grows brighter and he tugs at the bottom of John's jumper. "Can I...?"

"Of course." John strips the jumper off without any of his usual hesitation. Normally he dislikes baring the scar on his shoulder to anyone, lovers included, but he can tell that restoring the balance between the two of them will make Sherlock feel more at ease and that’s more important. He lightly strokes Sherlock's belly, waiting patiently while Sherlock looks and then touches, fingers probing at the wounded tissue. 

"You were kneeling," says Sherlock thoughtfully. 

John hums softly, cock growing harder at the knowledge that Sherlock's attention is focused solely on him. "Yes, I was," he says and turns his head, placing a kiss on Sherlock's hand. Sherlock makes a startled sound and John grins, taking his hand and kissing it again, deliberately dragging his tongue across the sensitive flesh. "You've got lovely hands, did you know that? Sometimes I dream about what they'd look like wrapped around my cock. I love watching them when you play your violin or work on your experiments. You’re so careful and precise about what you do.”

“I have to be.” Sherlock sounds a little breathless. He’s watching John with wide-eyed fascination and just a hint of uncertainty.

“I know, and in the case of your experiments I appreciate it.” He turns Sherlock’s hand over and licks across the palm, savouring the slightly salty taste of sweat. Sherlock’s got long fingers, but they’re surprisingly dainty in the right light. He lets his lips part and thoroughly enjoys the little whimper he receives when he slides one of Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth and begins to suck.


	6. Chapter 6

Hot. Wet. Slippery and soft and oh god, Sherlock feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs, like his throat has seized up and nothing can pass through. John's lips are sealed around his fingers and his tongue is laving over the tips, sliding down, tickling the webbing in between. Sherlock wasn’t aware that his fingers were directly linked to his cock, but apparently they are because every swipe of that pink tongue has his erection absolutely throbbing with desire. Laughing blue eyes look down at him and John smiles as best he can, reluctantly letting Sherlock's fingers slide free with a deliberate _pop_ that seems obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room.

"Breathe," he murmurs, tapping Sherlock's chest for emphasis, and like the word invokes some form of body memory Sherlock finds himself gasping for air.

"John, I want…" he trails off, frustrated at his inability to explain everything that he wants in as vivid detail as he'd like. His pants are far too tight and he wants nothing more than to strip them off, but at the same time he's not sure if he should risk it. Because that's the final barrier, the one thing that keeps this from crossing the line of becoming too serious and making it something he can't walk away from. He hasn't been completely naked in front of someone for years, and definitely never in front of anyone who looks at him the way John does.

"I know. I know, it's alright," John says softly. "Here, I'll go first." He lifts himself up on his knees and thumbs the button open on his jeans, clearly relishing the fact that Sherlock is close enough to watch. He slides his fingers through his waistband and tugs the jeans down, pushing his underwear down along with them. His cock bobs out, thick and angry-looking, a fat drop of pre-come beading up at the exposed slit. John leans forward to balance himself as he kicks his jeans and pants off and Sherlock can't help himself; he darts forward, like a snake, and licks the tip.

"Jesus fucking - " Arm giving out, John tilts sideways and crashes to the bed. He looks shocked and aroused. "Oh my god, Sherlock. Don't just - "

"Didn't you like it?" Sherlock asks innocently, looking over at him. The taste lingers in his mouth, a little salty, a little bitter, but on the whole more appetizing than anyone else he's experienced. He could happily suck John for hours, bringing him to the edge and back again, until John positively begs him for release. The idea has merit and he shifts onto his side, intending to follow through, but at the last minute a hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Hang on," John says shakily. "Just - hang on, alright?" He studies Sherlock for a long minute. "You're not going to distract me so easily, though I have to admit it's a damn good effort on your part. This isn't going to be just about me. I want to give you everything." His hand tightens and then rubs, the pressure soothing. "Sherlock, I think you're the most gorgeous man I've ever laid eyes on. There is no part of you that is unappealing to me. If you really don't want me to see, that's fine, but I - " He stops and bites his lip.

And fuck it, Sherlock Holmes can face down a lot of things, but the just shy of hurt look on John Watson's face is not one of them. Before his mind can kick in and remind him of just what a bad idea it is, he grabs his pyjama bottoms and yanks them down along with the pants he's wearing underneath. He keeps pushing until they're down by his feet and then they're off and he realizes he has no idea what to do next; his hands flutter in the air uselessly and he's torn between trying to cover his nudity and making another attempt at distracting John, because he's pretty sure that if he can just gets his hands on John's cock he can make sure that John doesn't even remember his own name, much less Sherlock.

John, it seems, has other ideas. He catches one of Sherlock's hands and plants a kiss on the back. "It's alright," he whispers, his breath heating the skin pleasantly. "It’s fine." He crawls to the bottom of the bed and sits there, looking. Sherlock isn't sure what John sees, but it affords him the chance to look as well and he takes it, mind scrambling to categorize as much data as possible just in case he never gets the chance to do this again.

Unlike most men his age who have settled into middle age, John is still strong, still muscled, with only a little softness around his belly to show his age. He has several smaller scars littering his body - some of them are very old, old enough to have been earned in childhood, proving that John's always had an active lifestyle - as well as the more prominent one on his shoulder. The hair around his cock is a dusky dark blond. No grey there yet. His leg muscles are tight from running around London on a weekly basis and his hands are perfectly steady without the slightest hint of a tremble. On the whole he's one of the most attractive men Sherlock has ever seen and his cock, so hard it’s standing up against John’s belly, is practically begging to be sucked.

"John," he starts.

"Shh, no, Sherlock. You're..." John shakes his head helplessly and picks up one of Sherlock's feet. "Even your feet are beautiful." He sounds so annoyed about that and Sherlock can feel the slightly hysterical laugh rising in his chest before he can stop it. But it's too late, John chooses that second to look up and their eyes meet and in the next second they've both dissolved into laughter.

Sherlock is certain that laughing during sex would normally be termed "a bit not good" but this is John and John has never been normal. Even so, when he says, "Can I touch you, John?" he realizes he sounds unaccountably shy, enough so that John sits up and takes notice.

"Of course. I'm rather hoping you'll touch me a lot later tonight," he says with a grin. "But right now it's my turn, okay?" He runs a finger down the length of Sherlock's sole and stops when the toes wiggle reflexively. His eyes are all soft and warm when he looks up. "I want right now to be about you, just you, and how absolutely gorgeous I think you are. And I’m afraid that this time you’re going to have to be the one who puts up with what I want.”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock says quickly, “Sometimes I can’t... my mind is too... the data...”

“Just relax,” John tells him, setting his foot aside and moving up between Sherlock’s thighs. “I won’t do anything you don’t like, trust me.”

Oddly enough, Sherlock does.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock’s cock is flushed and pink, standing up from a thatch of dark curls that lead up to Sherlock’s belly button. He’s an innie, John notes with a little smile of amusement, and his belly ripples from a soft gasp when John leans down and plants a kiss directly over that little hole, dipping his tongue inside briefly, and Sherlock jerks. Ticklish, perhaps. The thought is definitely one to be pondered for another day, but for the time being he’s a little busy. With a tenderness he only shows in the bedroom, he kisses down the trail of hair until his chin brushes the shaft, drawing a soft moan from Sherlock, who has fisted his hands in the sheets already.

He continues to kiss around the base, then down, down, until his lips brush against warm, furry skin that’s beginning to draw up tightly to Sherlock’s body. John takes one ball into his mouth and, keeping his lips over his teeth, rolls it around, tugs gently, listening to the gasps and stuttered breathing coming from the man he’s tending to. It’s delicious, having the dignified Sherlock Holmes coming apart underneath him, and he can’t wait to see more, hear more, _taste_ more. With a slightly wicked grin he moves on to the other ball, allowing it to slip between his lips to dampen the flesh, then pulling back and blowing gently across them both, relishing the way Sherlock jerks and gives a strangled moan that likely means he’s biting his lip in a failed effort to keep quiet.

“Do you know,” John says softly, “how hard you are to resist? If I’d had even the slightest idea, Sherlock, god...” It makes him ill to think about how much time they’ve lost. He resolves to make up for it. He shifts up, bracing his body with his elbows and using his hands to pin Sherlock’s hips down. He breathes wetly over the head, which strains up towards him like it’s begging for his hands, his mouth, and he’s all too willing to respond to the call.

Gently, he leans forward and wraps his lips around the tip, suckling lightly. Sherlock’s hips flex beneath his hands and he moans, long and loud, sounding almost agonized at the sensation. John is pretty exceptional at this, he has to admit, and he sets about methodically taking Sherlock apart with nothing more than his tongue and a fair amount of generous sucking. Sherlock writhes beneath him, whimpering, and eventually one long-fingered hand tangles into John’s hair. It takes him a moment to realize that Sherlock is weakly tugging at him, trying to pull him away, and he goes reluctantly.

“What?” he says, pushing himself up so that he can peer into Sherlock’s face. The wide, stunned eyes looking back tell him everything he needs to know and he hides a smile by licking his lips. “Enjoying it a bit more than you thought? You do taste delicious. I could do that all day.”

“You…” Words apparently failing him, Sherlock settles for swallowing hard and John chuckles, so full of love for the beautiful man lying underneath him that he honestly doesn’t know what to do it with it. He settles for crawling up the length of Sherlock’s body and kissing him, light, sweet kisses, one right after the other, until the fog in Sherlock’s expression clears and he begins to kiss back.

“I want you,” John murmurs against his lips. “Can I?”

It hurts to see the brief flash of uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes, the way he hesitates before nodding and lifting his hips, rubbing with a deliberate friction that sends tingles through John’s body. He exhales slowly, because god he wants to do everything to this man and he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of anything and it’s still hard to believe, just a little, that Sherlock’s not taking the piss. And yet, in spite of the fact that Sherlock can be a gifted actor when he wants to, no one could fake the hurt that was written all over Sherlock’s face when they were talking in the kitchen or the way he looks now, hopeful but wary.

"I'll be gentle," John promises instinctively, sliding his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek.

"I'm not a virgin," Sherlock sneers, sounding a bit insulted, the trepidation disappearing in the wake of his scorn. He arches his back a little again and undulates his hips, coaxing a moan out of both of them. "I'm not going to break, John. I _want_ you to fuck me."

The lust John has been ignoring up until now suddenly feels overwhelming and he exhales roughly from between gritted teeth. "Right," he says, and then "Right" again because he's not sure what else to say. He looks around, realizing that they'll need lube. He really doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone right now; he knows the man well enough to realize that would be a spectacularly bad idea at the moment. So... "Do you have anything?"

"Drawer." Sherlock jerks his head to the left and John reaches over, pulling the drawer open. A half-used vial of lube is resting right on top and he grabs it, feeling a jolt of desire at the mental picture of Sherlock using it, slicking his hands up, rubbing them all over his cock, maybe even sliding a finger or two into himself. He wants to see that someday, but as he turns to look back at Sherlock he knows that day is a long way away. Because Sherlock has flipped over, baring his arse, and buried his head in the pillows. And John knows, in a flash of weary instinct, that it's not just because Sherlock wants to be taken from behind, but because he thinks that it's better this way when no one can see his face.

"Hey," he says softly, stroking the slender shoulder presented to him. The skin is warm beneath his thumb and he leans forward, pressing a kiss against the pale expanse. "Hey. Turn over. I want to see you when I do this."

For a split second he thinks Sherlock is going to ask him if he's sure. But instead he resolutely presses his mouth into a thin line and rolls over slowly, pulling his knees up towards his chest and spreading his thighs. The sight makes John feel lightheaded with _want_. His hand shakes a little as he opens the tube and he squirts a little too much lube onto his fingers. Briskly he rubs them together, smearing the lube and warming it. Sherlock's eyes linger briefly on his hand before lifting to his face and focusing intently on him. Under the watchful, deducing eyes of his detective, John slowly lowers his hand.


	8. Chapter 8

The first touch of John’s fingers against his entrance makes Sherlock stiffen even though he knows it’s coming. He forces himself to relax in the next breath but it’s too late: John, on high alert for the slightest bit of tension, has already spotted the instinctive reaction and is responding to it. He doesn’t stop or pull his hand away like Sherlock thinks he might, but he does slide his fingers just to the right and start making slow, easy circles, not pressing, just so light that if it weren’t for the coolness of the gel Sherlock wouldn’t know his fingers were even there. And gradually, Sherlock can feel his body relaxing on its own, the tension draining away from his muscles.

“Alright?” John says quietly. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just nudges the tip of his index finger against the little hole, sliding just a bit inside. Sherlock takes a deep breath and remains still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as more of the finger inches into him, a slow deep glide that makes him feel a little dizzy. It’s been a long time since he’s done this with anyone, and the last person who had an interest in fucking him had taken him with very little preparation, just a rough push and burn that left Sherlock aware of it for days afterward. He wants that now, wants to have anything to remember this by, even pain.

“More,” he says, pressing his hips down. “I’m not going to break, John.”

John looks a little amused at that, and he lets the fingers of his free hand trail lazily up Sherlock’s thigh. “I know you’re not but I like to take my time,” he says. “There’s no rush. We’re not going anywhere.” But he presses a second finger in, the copious amounts of lube making the addition an easy slide. Sherlock makes a soft sound of approval and closes his eyes, head tilted back against the pillows. He likes this, having John inside of him. It’s something he thinks he could get addicted to.

A pleased rumble slips out when John begins pumping, moving his fingers in and out, scissoring them on every second push, encouraging the muscle to relax. John hums in reply, his eyes still focused intently on Sherlock’s face. He lifts his hand and twists, lips parted slightly in thought, and Sherlock bites his lip on a moan at the sudden burst of pleasure that floods through him. John grins, pleased that his search has been successful, and does it again, lightly running the tip of one finger just over top of his prostate. Sherlock squirms, unused to this; normally it’s in sharp concentrated bursts from the head of a cock that bring his orgasm on quickly, not unending, sweet pulses that are slowly but surely turning his muscles to jelly.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful,” John murmurs, cheeks flushed. “I could do this to you all day, Sherlock, I really could. I love how responsive you are, the way you jump every time I touch you just right.” He tilts a finger and Sherlock whimpers breathlessly. “I know you tell me that people are idiots on a regular basis, but this is the first time I’m really starting to think you’re right. Anyone who can’t recognize how fucking gorgeous you are really _is_ an idiot.”

“John.” The word comes out as a moan. He can’t think, not like this, not when John is so good at learning what takes him apart. Sherlock opens his eyes, looking up at him. Those lustful blue eyes are staring back at him and then John smiles, so tender and loving that Sherlock can’t - he has to turn away, fisting his hands, because it’s just too much.

“Gorgeous, Sherlock. Every part of you is just… god.” John exhales and slides a third finger deep, rocking his hand in tune to the unconscious thrusting of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock whimpers again, feeling exquisitely filled, the slight burn only a lingering memory that somehow makes it better. John’s fingers are splayed wide, exposing him, teasing him open even further, and he arches his back, no longer sure whether he wants to move away or try to get more. 

“J-John,” he stutters, “John, _please_.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” The steady movement of his fingers, so, so slow, never ceases, a rhythmic pump learned from the natural movement of Sherlock’s body, one that John is taking and changing to suit what _he_ wants. Sherlock doesn’t mind; he’ll give it all to John because he thinks that John might be the one person who knows what to do with it. 

“Yes. Yes, please, I’m sure, just John please!”

“Alright, shh, it’s alright.” John’s free hand smoothes down his belly, rubbing in small circles, soothing and warm. He eases his other hand free and slicks up his cock while Sherlock shudders beneath him. “Lift your hips up, Sherlock, there you go.” He slides a pillow under Sherlock’s hips and moves closer, lining the head of his cock with Sherlock’s entrance, making small, rocking movements with his hips so that the tip pushes teasingly forward before sliding back, a hint of what’s to come.

Sherlock moans in frustration, desire and want pounding out an itch underneath his skin, and tries to push down but John’s steady hands on his hips keep him still, letting John control the motion. With a smooth roll of his pelvis he grinds forward, making the first breach, his head sliding easily inside. Both of them freeze and John’s eyes go wide as he exhales through gritted teeth, for the first time a small sign that his control may not be as solid as he wants. He looks down between them at the sight of this and shivers, licking his lips. 

“God,” he says unsurely, “God, you are - ”

“Yes, I know, just would you please - ” Sherlock lifts his legs and locks them around John’s back, pulling him closer. John stumbles, not having expected the move, and slides all the way in one harsh, deep thrust that makes Sherlock’s head tip back and a long, low moan escape him. He’s completely, utterly filled by John. Finally.


	9. Chapter 9

John’s had sex before. Of course he has. His earliest memory of taking someone to bed with him is from when he was still in school, when a pretty girl had smiled just right and invited him home because her parents worked late. But never, in all of his years of experience, has it ever felt like _this_. Sherlock is blazing hot inside, gripping John’s cock like a vice. Every sweet, agonizing twitch of Sherlock’s muscles makes a new rush of pleasure shoot through him. He pants for breath, struggling to draw air into lungs that seem to have forgotten how to work, and leans forward, bracing his body with his good arm, hand pressed against the bed over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out. “You’re going to kill me, Sherlock.”

Normally Sherlock would be making some kind of sarcastic or caustic comment in response, but he seems to have temporarily lost the capability for speech. And when John looks down at him, he sees that Sherlock’s eyes are blown wide, a pretty flush on his cheeks as he gulps in deep breaths like someone’s been suffocating him. Though the grip of his legs around John’s hips remains tight, his hands are shaking slightly where they clutch at the sheets on either side of his waist. John tries to remain as still as possible as he reaches his free hand down and brushes a curl off of Sherlock’s forehead.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, I’m still here. Don’t disappear on me, yeah? I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do, but I need you to talk to me.”

"Don't move," Sherlock says, and it sounds like the words have been pulled from somewhere deep inside of him. His voice is husky and the sound of it goes straight to John's cock, which - if possible - hardens even more. A soft moan escapes Sherlock and he throws his head back, hands releasing and then closing reflexively again around the sheets. Impulsively John grabs his hand and links their fingers together.

He'll wait as long as Sherlock wants him to, no matter how much it grates at his self control to remain still while he's buried in silken, searing heat. Addicted, he thinks somewhat hazily, eyes lingering over the way the pink flush has spread all the way down Sherlock's chest. His nipples are hard and pebbled, his stomach trembling with the force of his panting, cock hard and slapping against his belly, leaving smears of glistening pre-come on his skin. The room smells like sweat and sex, a raw heady scent that's making John feel dizzy. And Sherlock, dark curls a mess against the pillow like a sinful fallen angel, looking up at John like John is the one who matters. 

"God," he murmurs. "God, Sherlock, you are so beautiful."

The blush on Sherlock's face deepens. "You're biased," he says.

John lets out a rueful chuckle. "No, I've pretty much always thought that from the moment I met you. Even when we were at Bart's and you were a complete stranger who knew everything about me at a glance," he admits. He'd clung to his denial for months, using the "I'm not gay" stance as a defence to keep him from getting hurt after Sherlock had made it clear that he was not interested. Now John squeezes his hand, wondering how much time they've lost because he wasn't brave enough to make the first move, because he couldn't see that this gorgeous man had been wounded in the past to the point where he couldn't. Thank god he decided to come back to the flat tonight instead of going straight to Harry's. He thinks of where he could be, on Harry's couch listening to her whine about Clara, and can't contain a shudder.

Sherlock is watching him, eyes fixed on his face. Suddenly he lifts his hips, arching his back, and clenches his muscles around John. Both of them groan out loud, the sounds mixing until it becomes one long, drawn out cry that trails off slowly. John is pretty sure he sees stars just from that one movement and it's suddenly become a lot harder to stay upright. Regretfully he slides his hand out of Sherlock's grip and uses it to help brace himself. Sherlock's freed hand slides slowly across one sharp hipbone, across the surface of his belly to close around his cock. His thumb teases at the foreskin, drawing it down in an almost playful manner, and John watches, totally transfixed, amazed that Sherlock is putting on this show _just for him_.

"You can move now," Sherlock says almost shyly.

And as much as John wants to take his time, wants to keep watching, those words remind him of the desire that's coursing through him. He shifts and pulls out almost all the way, until there's nothing still inside except for the head of his cock, and then he pushes in as slowly as he can bear. Sherlock moans, eyes fluttering shut, and his hand tightens around his cock. John swears softly under his breath and does it again. The pace is maddeningly frustrating for the both of them, but it's worth it just to see the way that Sherlock begins pulling harder at his cock, struggling to achieve the right amount of friction that will bring him off. He doesn't seem to be able to achieve it with John's teasing pace, and finally a frustrated whine falls from his lips.

There's nothing John can say to that, but he does lean down, capturing Sherlock's mouth in a hungry kiss. At the same time he shoves in a little bit harder and faster, swallowing the whimper that Sherlock makes as a result. "Touch yourself," he says into Sherlock's ear when he breaks the kiss, sucking an earlobe into his mouth. He nibbles at the flesh, gentle bites with his teeth, until Sherlock is squirming underneath him. "I want to see you, Sherlock. I want to see you come for me."

Even this is not enough to make the hesitant look disappear entirely from Sherlock's eyes, but he obediently tightens his grip on his cock. His breath comes in shuddering gasps as he twists his thumb over the slit, rubbing roughly behind the head of his cock with his index finger. John thrusts unerringly against his prostate, unsure of where to watch, that pretty cock or Sherlock’s face, and it’s a rush to try and watch both at the same time. Finally he settles on Sherlock’s face, on the way those verdigris eyes widen and his mouth drops open into a little round ‘o’, like his orgasm is a complete shock. One more rough thrust and Sherlock arches, completely soundless, the first shot striking John’s chest before he spills the rest over his rapidly moving hand.

John’s orgasm takes him by surprise. The sight of Sherlock coming is enough to send him over the edge without any more provocation. It’s easily the strongest, most intense orgasm he’s ever had.


	10. Chapter 10

By the time that Sherlock comes back to himself, John has collapsed beside him, face half-buried in both the pillow and Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s still breathing hard and his body is pleasantly warm. Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, feeling his own heart pounding even harder than it does when he’s finally solved a case. He feels lightheaded, almost overwhelmed with thoughts of everything that’s going to be changing as a result of this. He’s never dared to allow himself contemplate what might happen if... well, if this very scenario took place. And now that it has he can’t help wondering whether it will happen again or if John just wanted a one time thing. He’s had people in the past who have talked about love just to coax him into bed; the emotion always disappeared as soon as the sex was over.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, he rolls away and sits up, disregarding John’s muffled grumble of complaint. His body feels sore and used, but not in a way that is overly painful. “Thank you,” he says a bit awkwardly, the words unfamiliar. 

John shifts beside him and then sits up. Without saying a word he grabs Sherlock by the wrist and hauls the protesting man backwards until John is leaning against the pillows and has Sherlock trapped between his thighs, leaning against his chest, with his arms folded tightly around Sherlock’s midsection. From this position he can pepper kisses freely across the pale shoulders in front of him while his hand rubs soothing circles across Sherlock’s belly. And slowly, Sherlock feels his body beginning to relax against his will, the loving ministrations wearing away at even his iron defence.

“Git,” John breathes, hot and wet, inciting a shiver. “Did you think that was how this would end? With a one-off and a thank you, like you’re some kind of whore? That’s not how I work, Sherlock.”

“I,” Sherlock starts, and then goes silent when John nips warningly at the back of his neck.

“No, you listen and don’t interrupt, got it? You are the most wonderful, frustrating man I’ve ever met. I didn’t want to fall in love with you, Sherlock. I really didn’t. I could tell how annoying you were going to be right from day one when I wasn’t even trying to hit on you and you still managed to blow me off.” John smiles against his skin. “God, you’re such a bastard sometimes and I love you so much that it hurts but there it is, that’s how it’s always going to be between us. But if there’s even the slightest chance that I can change that I’m going to take it.”

Sherlock is speechless. Really, he is. He can’t remember the last time that he actually didn’t know what to say, but he’s pretty sure John is the only one who can create this sort of reaction. Puzzling, that. “John, I…” he trails off at the warm sensation of John’s hand, now trailing almost lazily up his chest, circling his nipples with the pad of a finger, before sliding back down. Somehow that makes it easier to speak. “I don’t… expect anything.”

“I know you don’t. Even I could tell that much.” John’s voice is warm with good humour. “Sherlock, I don’t know what kind of idiots you had sex with in the past, but they were wrong, okay?” He gently urges Sherlock’s head back, letting their eyes meet. “Listen to me and try to let it absorb into your thick head. If that bit of mind blowing sex wasn’t enough to convince you, believe me when I say that I think you’re beautiful and I’m extremely attracted to you. There is nothing you could do to chase me away. I’d fuck you every day, several times a day, if you’d let me. Or I’d let you fuck me, I’m not picky.” He grins when Sherlock shivers at the idea. “I love you, alright? And you, me, this, it’s fine. It’s _all_ fine.”

The familiar words are as much a comfort as when John leans in and kisses him gently. Sherlock struggles for a split second, not sure if he wants to let himself believe that John could be serious, and John waits, lips just barely touching, letting him come to his own conclusions. It’s this which eventually makes Sherlock press forward, turning the kiss into something a little more solid. He brings his hand up and slides it into John’s hair, tugging lightly at the strands. John murmurs his approval and breaks off reluctantly to take a deep breath, his mouth settling into a familiar smile. Sherlock smiles back tentatively.

“John,” he says quietly, “I love you too.”

“I know.” John kisses his forehead and lets Sherlock curl into him, resting his head on John’s good shoulder while John’s steady, wonderful hands stroke his back and belly. Sherlock feels completely surrounded in John and it’s not just good, it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him.


End file.
